by Travis Borne
“I really must be going,” Jessie answered. She nervously moved backward to the door. “I’ll have to wake up earlier then. And yes, work is okay but I’m usually last. I’ve never actually logged in with anyone besides George and I have to tell you, honestly, I was always in my heart looking forward to our time together.”
Amy went ahead of her to get the door. Her eyes went up; it struck her as odd for the slightest moment but her elation rationalized everything. “Okay then, we’ll see each other tomorrow. And, Jessie, you don’t know how happy I am that you came. Please, come over anytime.”
Jessie headed back to her floor. She knew George was waiting.
As soon as the elevator door closed, Jim passed by, arriving from the stairs. He carried a large tan basket. Bertha sent over food frequently, sneak-outs and leftovers from the restaurant.
Another knock.
“Jim, that you?”
“Of course, who else?” He threw a silly smile. He’d only been gone for about twenty minutes—since Bertha’s messenger had buzzed letting them know about the food. “We got some gooood stuff in here. Macaroni and bacon, pizza wraps stuffed with potatoes and cheese, and her amazing gravy-infused bread sticks. This is a lot of food.”
“Yep, she always sends a lot.” Amy said. “You can keep the leftovers too. My fridge is stuffed, more than even I can eat.”
Jim’s eyes were round, gaping at the full basket. “Thanks. More rations for coffee,” he joked.
“You and your coffee,” Amy bantered.
He shrugged. But coffee was something Kim and her team always struggled with, therefore a high-priced commodity—and, not seeing her anymore, it would probably be regular price again; that and he was spending rations on creamer now. And he continued to rummage through the basket.
“Look at this, she even included pie,” Jim said. Yes, he’d surely rediscovered his appetite for a savory meal—even found himself eating at Julio’s and recommenced to loving pizza, a happy food; although, this happy-food had evolved to mean many things, hence all the pizza, and hardly resembled its pre-war cousin—almost anything made for toppings thanks to Meat Master manipulation and a cornucopia from the gardens. But it was Bertha’s cooking that sent Jim over the top—way better than anything from the kitchen below—as if his taste buds had been galvanized and were going through puberty.
“You won’t believe who came over while you were gone,” Amy said, heading for the counter. Jim was engaged in organizing the food, still discovering more, while drooling and getting some plates.
“Who?”
“Jessie,” she said.
He stopped messing with the dishes and froze. The profusion of happiness, more than he’d felt in a long time, morphed into a jolt. “Star? What was she doing here?”
“Well, she told me she was sorry for being mean. She wants to be friends and said she’s, quote, honestly looking forward to working together tomorrow.”
Jim continued with the food, slowly. He released a worrisome breath and said, “That doesn’t sound like her.”
“Well, I’m glad she did. And she looked like she had been crying, a lot. Her eyes were all swollen and purple underneath.”
Jim didn’t know what to think but something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t wait until Amy was done with Jessie, but especially that fucker George; while he didn’t like the idea of Amy being logged in with her, he dreaded her spending any time with him. He’d already made plans with Ted to scrutinize their sessions. Visions entered his mind and he tried to shake them away then remembered: he had dreams about George lately, fighting ones, the kind where he’d smash him to pieces and choke him with all he had, but somehow George kept coming and coming. And he punched his head until it was a pile of mash and pulp, but somehow, even headless, George kept coming. And he remembered how he awoke enraged, his heart a speed-bag getting punched inside his chest.
“Well, that’s—nice, I guess,” Jim said, half dazed and perturbed, trying to keep things on the good side of the line. “I just—”
“What, Jim?” Amy asked with a sprinkle of irritation.
“Ah, nothing,” he replied quickly, blowing it off again. But he felt he’d blown off too much already. I should’ve kicked his ass. Tomorrow, yes, he decided, I’m going to say something to George and his Babydoll, and I’m going to make myself perfectly fucking clear. “…it’s just…I’ll be glad when you’re done with those two. We had some great fun working together and, well, I miss you, I guess. Maybe I’m just jealous—I want my partner back.”
Amy smiled at him. They’d been spending more time together lately, and she liked working with him, but really enjoyed getting close with everyone on the team. It felt more like a family, the more complete one she’d always longed for.
He served the plates and Amy scanned them with starving eyes. She dug in and immediately started devouring the food. Jim followed. She finished two pizza wraps to Jim’s one, then started on the rest.
“Don’t you say it, Jim,” Amy said, mouth stuffed, noticing Jim was giving her the wow look again.
He knew her well enough now and they could joke openly. This time he threw his serious side out the window and they had fun. He stuffed his face, trying to mimic her. And it became a competition. He really tried but of course after the finish-line bite they both knew who’d lost and shared a laugh. Oddly, he’d developed a penchant for watching her eat, and no longer wondered how so much food could just vanish. He was convinced that it just evaporated in her stomach.
They finished the meal and started the board game. It was a long one but Amy won. She bought houses, even hotels, and Jim ended up in jail. It was one of the happiest times Jim had spent with her, besides their crazy exploits in Future City. He went home feeling more content than he’d felt in a long time.
63. Betrayal
She sat on the edge of her chair, fidgeting anxiously, quiet and alone at her wobbly table. Ready for work. Ready. Ready… “I can’t wait—”
Knock knock.
“Yes!” Amy said out loud and leapt to get the door. “Good morning, Jessie. Ready to have a blast?” Delighted Jessie was her friend, she’d barely slept a wink. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders: no more dirty looks, shoves, or hurtful words, and a new best friend, the one she’d wanted since the beginning.
Together they set off. Leaving the building they turned left and followed Main Street. Amy skipped happily, but Jessie, and it showed on her face, was timid and her thoughts troubled her. George told her nothing about what he’d planned to do, saying only: Trust me.
Instead of dead-ending at the wall, they took a shortcut around the gym and cut through the woods, which more quickly led to Rim Road; rarely did anyone take this route as cutting through the park was more efficient and pleasant. Chatting and strolling leisurely, they followed the dusty road alongside the base of the wall. Several times Jessie peered nervously up at the cameras, while Amy told her about a plan she’d envisioned for their first day together, conveying that she wanted everything to be special. Jessie acknowledged, managing to form a smile from time to time, but really didn’t comprehend any words. There was plenty of time to get to know each other but it was a one-sided conversation. She kept glancing up and around. The cameras were high but visible, and they pointed due south, clearly overlooking their position. Ahead: the canal’s outlet from beneath the wall and the small wooden bridge that crossed it.
Amy was a real blabbermouth. Jessie just smiled and nodded. After crossing the small hump of a bridge Jessie slowed—a ringing in her ears and scattering thoughts diluted her focus. She could no longer hear Amy, or anything. She looked about, everywhere, and her heart raced. She’d had second thoughts but couldn’t take action on them—until now. She didn’t know what George had planned but decided just then and there—she was not going to go through with it. Amy was a nice person and she was actually starting to like her. Whenever she spent time away from George, she saw things differently. And now, she made up her mind. And her thoughts c
leared, and she could again hear Amy.
She’s such a chatterbox, Jessie thought, trying to think. Now, how to get out of this? She stopped and spun slowly. There’s no way to cross the canal that edges the park, we either continue on the narrow section between the wall and the canal or head back. Passing the bridge was—oh, no. It’s the point of no return, perfect for a trap! She interrupted Amy mid-sentence and clutched her hand. “Amy, let’s go back across the bridge and cut through the park, the flowers are much prettier—”
Half turning around, she saw. Ten-thousand needles pricked every nerve with electric-ice, petrifying her muscles. George bore directly toward her. His sly creep from under the bridge turned into a dash, and he raised the blade. Jessie knew it then, he was going to murder Amy. A pulse of shock pushed her eyes wide, and time slowed. She turned in slow flickering frames like a movie camera eating the film—then time caught up.
“AMY WATCH OUT!” Jessie yelled.
Jessie tried to jerk her away but their hands parted. It was too late. Time sped up, past normal speed, and this was happening. George brought down the knife. With a dull crack it lodged between the ribs of her back. Amy’s reflexes jolted her into a spin. As if someone had punched her in the stomach, her face distended and the white of her eyes flooded with red. Her sudden jerk had plucked the handle from George’s clumsy grip and she looked up at him, and she looked at Jessie who had a frozen panicked stare, and Jessie’s eyes confessed every painful detail in an instant.
He’d flinched like a kid firing a gun for the first time. Shock commanded his face and his muscles weakened in a moment of pure surreality. And he mused at the feel, watching her fold. He’d never stabbed a real person before, or killed anything for that matter; he was just a city boy, an underwear model before the war. The sensation of the knife entering her flesh, the muffled knock echoing through the blade like a tuning fork—and he paused, watching her, holding still with arms at his sides as she struggled to catch her breath. She heaved over, breathing nothing in, releasing a silent scream. Leaning forward made her twinge and she jerked and twisted to the side, reaching for it.
Jessie unfixed herself and ran to help. George bunted her aside and she landed hard on her butt. She looked up at him, then back to Amy. She could only watch in horror as George regained control of his determination, branding himself as a can-do killer. Amy kept twisting, arching, trying to reach her back, stumbling backwards. Her skinny legs tangled and she fell over.
George took a deep breath and bent his back, splaying both arms toward the sky. He cracked a sinister smile and let the warm morning sun graze his face then slowly moved only his head. Looking down to Jessie on the ground, he flared, “Jessie, get the fuck out of here. Now!”
Stirring dust wildly, she fumbled to get up then bolted. As she reached the bridge she hesitated and turned to look back. Amy appeared so tiny compared to George: belly to the middle of the dusty road, his boot pressing the air out of her. He worked the blade back and forth trying to dislodge it. I can’t leave her. I won’t!
He finally managed to dislodge the knife. Curious, he hesitated. There was very little spatter, and he kept a foot planted on her while inspecting the deep gash as it pooled with blood. Amy wriggled in pain, having finally caught her breath, she cried out. He pressed his boot, forcing her air out again. Everything seemed to perplex him, although not as much as that initial stab. Real life was a bit different from the dream world, in a chilling way; different when a real person is about to die. Satisfying. A minuscule part of him dreaded the sensation of the knife, entering her again. Just the feeling of it sliding in: maybe hitting something hard, maybe not. And he removed his foot.
Amy rolled, catching her breath and looked up into his haunted eyes. With barely enough air to form words she managed to faintly utter, “George, please.”
But George had unfamiliar eyes and he moved them wickedly from side to side, not blinking. He knew, this was it and granted his sinister side, the growing part of him that liked it—the shock, the sensation, especially the power—free rein, and he raised the blade. He was trance-like with a placid drunk smile. Amy squeezed her eyes and tucked into a ball.
“Uuumph!” Jessie tackled him with all she had. Weighing about half as much as George, the full-speed tackle ricocheted her like a pool ball hitting the rail. And the impact jarred her perception of time. Floating through the air, slow motion, everything became clear. I hate him. I—always have. His fucking rules and his twisted desires, everything. His long stares and constant needs. He’s sick, and disgusting. I FUCKING HATE YOU— She landed hard, snapping time painfully back into place. George, had barely fallen to a knee.
“Jessie, betrays, me,” he said, erecting himself. His eyes became slits and he held a breath of fury. With every muscle clenched, he stomped to face her. He’d become rabid to the next degree and released the pent air with a new aim. “You, fucking, bitch.” He moved one stomp per word. “I, am, going, to, fucking kill you!” She squirmed, kicking at the dry dirt. And he came down.
He dropped to his knees and palmed her into submission, very easily overpowering her delicate frame. Every muscle in his body was steel as she slapped him wildly but he quickly pinned her flat on her back, her arms to the side. Her sobs had changed to anger, and he was intent on fixing that.
“Do it,” Jessie commanded, then spat. Her mind had assembled more in the last few moments than it had in years. She was scared, but hoped Amy was up and running to get help.
With a wicked smile he devoured her spittle then slid the blood-stained steel beneath her shirt. She took in a breath, still undeterred in her anger. The edge of the cold steel grazed her skin and she breathed in deeper, quicker. He scissored the knife upward, slicing her shirt, then did the same to her bandeau. “I’ll find another, easily,” he said. “Maybe not as pretty, no surely not, but obedient for sure. I’ll make sure of that.” He tilted the knife above her naked chest and brought the point slowly into position between her breasts. He could see her chest thumping, and liked it. “This time I’m going to enjoy the sensation,” he said. “The feel of it going in. I’ll do it slow, Baby, just the way you like it. We can both enjoy it.”
She tried to retain her determination and anger but feeling the prick shocked her. Sobbing, she shook her head rapidly and pleaded. His weight prevented her from screaming and claustrophobic terror set in.
Amy jumped onto his back. She knocked him off! The knife hadn’t penetrated deep enough to cause internal damage; mostly it had knocked the wind out of her. She was back, and mad. George had been so fixated on his final moment with Jessie he didn’t lend a thought to the still very capable young woman behind him. Taking focus off of a dream character, something that had become almost second nature to him, didn’t work in the real world. This was not a dream, it was real, and the painful gouge he’d surprised her with earlier only served to magnify her adrenaline surge.
They wrestled on the dusty ground. Amy slapped and kicked, putting up a considerable fight. She was quick, fast, and knocked him good several times. Unbelievable! She was getting the best of a man twice her size—then George landed a dizzying punch to her left eye. Her mouth fell open and the back of her head hit the dirt. She saw three of him and felt the punch travel into the pit of her stomach.
Methodically, he reached down and grasped her throat with both hands, one at a time to get a good, solid grip, then lifted her into the air. He raised her higher and laughed. But Amy, still just getting started, kicked him in the nuts. George heaved as the pain quickly started to climb into his gut, and she followed up with a direct right—claw. She grabbed his throat, with her robotic arm.
Her left eye was swelling, her body was bloody, dirty, and beaten, but she managed a healthy laugh herself, and squeezed a little. In return, George squeezed his grip. Amy knew she had a good twenty seconds left, even if he gave it his best, and decided to play the game. She squeezed a little more—and George realized he was in trouble.
Her face s
welling, air, almost, gone, she felt the dizziness coming but remained resolute. She decided to finish it, and commanded the arm. The fingers went like a knife into butter, deep into George’s throat. Sliding on sweat-glazed skin, slipping past his jugulars, the fingers touched on the inside.
Lying on the ground Jessie gaped. Her eyes popped in disbelief and she winced.
A pop, his grip loosened, a pull, his eyes bulged, a final wrench and twist, and Amy fell to the ground with it. Like ringing a church bell, she kept pulling and jerking the stretchy pipe from his neck until the entire throat had been gruesomely extirpated.
And she kept on pulling, until every connecting tissue and vessel eventually snapped. His very windpipe, the longest most solid part, was stretched thin and ultimately snapped, sliding its entire length from the core of his chest like a ribbed worm; a glossy dangling vacuum hose. He was really perplexed now. He stood aghast while his tongue wriggled like a snake and slid through the crater below his chin, falling out like a twelve-inch-long necktie.
George fell to his knees and forward onto her and his head landed face first onto her belly.
As horrible as it was, under his grisly carcass, she exhaled a sigh of relief—because it was over, he was done.
But he still held the knife. Pinned, Amy saw and reached for it with her left. Then, he twitched. With a reflex action his muscles jerked and he sucked a gurgling breath into his hole. His body returned to life in a spasmodic finale, once again becoming solid with pernicious resolve.
Sitting up, she kicked herself out from under him, then rolled, pulling and thrusting herself away; in such a panic she didn’t realize she was still clutching his hoses. But this time it was bad. Her legs went limp, losing all power instantly and she felt nothing from the waist down. He forced it in with all he had and twisted it deep into the center of her back. Along the ground she heaved herself, using the lock-fisted robotic arm as a powerful lever. She managed a small gap and slid half out from under him, dragging her benumbed limbs.
